


An Afterschool Lesson on British Dirty Words

by mistakeandcheese



Series: After School Lesson (UKFr/FrUK) [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bottom France (Hetalia), Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, FrUK, France Being France (Hetalia), Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Sexual Assault, Top England (Hetalia), ukfr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistakeandcheese/pseuds/mistakeandcheese
Summary: Despite the instantaneous dislike bred between Arthur and the newly transferred student, Arthur finds himself devoting hours to helping the other improve his English. But after an inappropriate mishap in the classroom, Arthur decides that more is needed to keep Francis from being taken advantage of again.Dominant England (mostly)UkFr(This is a story I had previously posted on another site a while ago, but I don't really use that anymore so I'm hoping to transfer my work to here)
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Series: After School Lesson (UKFr/FrUK) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907638
Comments: 48
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

High school was pretty boring, even for Arthur Kirkland. He was a smart kid who brought home A’s and B’s, who never interrupted class, and who liked working quietly on his own. But despite being good at school, it was still boring.

Something only mildly interesting happened near the beginning of junior year, when a new student was introduced to his class. It was interesting because he was a foreign student. A French student.

It was in English class that Arthur first saw him. 

“Class, this is Francis Bonnefoy.” The teacher told them “He is new here as he has just moved from France. English is his second language, so if he has any questions or needs direction around the school, be a friend and help him out. Would you like to say anything Francis?”

The student, who wore stylish clothes and had floaty, shoulder-length, blonde hair, flashed the class a dazzling smile and said “ _Je suis très heureux de tous vous rencontrer.”_

“Not all of them understand French, Francis. Could you tell us what that means?”

The smile dimmed somewhat, and through his blue eyes passed a shadow of worry. “Um...Allo, I am 'appy of now knowing you all.” He spoke with a heavy accent. The class only stared at him. Glancing uncomfortably to the floor, he then gratefully made his way to the empty seat in the back, indicated to him by the teacher. He didn’t talk much for the rest of class.

The same routine was followed in the next two of Arthur’s classes, as he apparently had a very similar schedule to the new kid. Difference was, instead of saying anything in front of the class, the foreign student only smiled and nodded as the teacher introduced him. 

Francis Bonnefoy wasn’t a disruptive student, especially not in English class, where he remained mostly quiet. However, it only took a few interactions for Arthur to decide that he didn’t like him. When Arthur was at his locker putting away his things, with plans to use the loo just before lunch, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see Francis. 

“Pardon, I believe you are in some of my classes?”

“Yeah?” Arthur responded, wondering briefly if the French kid was trying to find a lunch table to sit at. 

“I want of you to give to me directions to ze bathroom.”

“Uh, yeah sure.” Turning back to rummaging through his locker, he said, “down this hall, take a right. Should be one along the left side of the next hallway.”

“ _Merci_.” And with that, the kid was gone. Arthur was just putting away his things and shutting his locker, when he saw the same kid again standing next to him. 

“Can I help you?” He said, raising an eyebrow.

Francis tossed some hair from his face and sniffed “Ze directions you gave to me were bad. I cannot find it.”

Well, _excuse_ him! The directions Arthur took his time to give were ‘bad’? As in, they were the _problem_? Not that, God forbid he admit it, Francis was simply not _good_ at following directions? Arthur kept all this to himself, of course. Perhaps the foreign kid just didn’t know how to put it any better. And even if he did, Arthur certainly wouldn’t want to come off as rude, like _some_ people. 

He also didn’t really want to take this guy along with him as a bathroom buddy, but he supposed it was easier, and less rude, and less time consuming, to just show him where it was. Sighing, he jerked his head. “Just come with me then. I was going there anyways.”

Arthur had to listen as the French kid babbled about how there was something wrong about the structure of the school, about how they should have thought to post maps for new people if they were going to go and make it so confusing, and about how the color on the ceiling clashed with the floor tiles, all the way to the bathroom. It was as though the very walls of the place were out to offend him. Then, when they finally got there, Arthur went to use a urinal, and the French kid walked right past him, to the mirror. The _only_ reason he had wanted the bathroom in the first place...was to fix his hair.

After the bathroom, he found himself walking to lunch with Francis, and gritting his teeth the entire way. Even though he held his tongue, his body language must have given him away because the slurred mixture of English and French tapered away before they got there, and Francis gave him a little, furtive look before abandoning him to find a seat near some hooligans at a different table. Arthur had no problem with that (though he was a little miffed at being left the _second_ he wasn’t needed for directions) and even perhaps would have preferred that Francis occupy a table further away. Arthur liked having space to himself. It made it easier to sit back, read a good book, and eat in peace. It’s why he always sat at lunch alone.

After that it only took a few behavioral observations for Arthur to be tipped over the edge of mild irritation, to plain dislike. Seeing him turn up his nose to the food served in the cafeteria. Seeing him eye other people’s clothes distastefully. Seeing him toss his hair. And touch his hair. And twirl his hair around his finger. God, it was so annoying...

The weeks passed and Francis seemed to be all smiles and charm to people. He seemed to be making his way, and Arthur soon began to consider him the overly social type whom he would never want to interact with anyway; however, Arthur did notice that he seemed to jump around between friends, as if he couldn’t really settle long enough to find any real ones. And some days, at lunch, he too, sat alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see this story posted elsewhere, it is because I previously posted in on another site. This site is better though. This site wins.
> 
> Translations:  
> Je suis très heureux de tous vous rencontrer: Hello. I am very happy to meet you
> 
> Note: I wouldn't normally write in accent sounds (like "ze" instead of "the" for Francis). Everybody's got an accent when you get down to it--(If the stuff that comes out of my mouth was transcribed directly it would pro'ly soun' li' this er sumthin)--making that practice inherently inconsistent and complicated. But with this story I'd say it goes to emphasize how socially alienated Francis is (and the fact that the story is somewhat skewed to England's point of view), so for now, I'm gonna keep it. Any French speakers out there--I totally acknowledge that if I ever tried speaking French, my accent would be...well. Let's just say it would definitely be. In short, please nobody worry about speaking because of accents! We all got'em!


	2. Chapter 2

One day, after about a month of sitting alone at lunch and largely ignoring the exploits of the French kid and whomever he was table sharing with this week, Arthur did something momentous.

He finished the book he had been reading.

Looking up, his eyes briefly scanned the cafeteria, and came to rest on the clock, indicating he still had about ten minutes left to eat. He sighed, and as he finished up his food opened to the author’s acknowledgments in the back, just so he could look like he didn’t have nothing to do. 

That was all.

He stayed after school to do homework as usual, and when he was done he hung around at his locker, rummaging around to make sure he had his his card, before slinging his bag over his shoulder, and exiting the school to walk towards the public library.

Once there, he returned the old one and went straight for his favorite section, fantasy, to pick up something fresh. Poking through the shelves, he didn’t notice the familiar blonde head only meters away from him, until he heard a soft voice mumble something in a foreign language. 

Startled, and with his mind still on his favorite genre, his imagination jumped to the idea of whispering fairies and giggling sprites, _quite_ sooner than he would have admitted than to the latter option, which was that somebody was sitting nearby.

But as soon as he did reach the second conclusion, his eyes caught on a glint of gold behind his bookshelf, and immediately he knew the voice had belonged to none other than Francis Bonnefoy. 

Arthur peered through a crack in the bookshelf so that he could spy on the French kid. Francis was seated in one of the library’s armchairs: the kind Arthur used when he knew he was going to be sitting there reading for a good while. Francis didn’t look comfortable, though. He was hunched over the table, a book resting between his elbows, and papers scattered all around him. Arthur shifted one of the books on the shelf, so that the spying gap was a little bigger. Francis’s normally pristine hair was ruffled and twisted all up in his hands, which he rested his face on as he stared intensely down at the pages, lips moving wordlessly as he studied. 

Arthur felt a crease form between his eyebrows. This looked like the classic image of the failing student struggling to keep his head above the water. Was Francis having trouble with his grades? Why hadn’t this behavior been noticeable before?

Arthur’s attention was caught again when he heard and little, almost squeaky...sob? And then a hopeless murmur of “ _non, non, ce n'est pas correct…_ ” before Francis arched his back, splayed his fingers over his face, and then collapsed defeatedly over the table, head buried in his arms.

Alright, this had gone on pathetically enough. Weaving his way out from between the bookshelves, Arthur approached Francis Bonnefoy and didn’t halt until he was planted firmly aside him, arms crossed.

“I hope you realize final exams aren’t till the _end_ of the year, Frog.”  
Francis’s head snapped up, and an expression of vulnerable ‘caught’-ness was prevalent as he snatched up some of his papers and pulled them out of sight.

“ ‘ave you come to torment to me, _Rosbif_? Or simply to do stalking?” He was quickly smoothing over his initial panic with an air of snooty annoyance. But it was a cover-up made obvious by the way he was shielding his papers with his elbows, and glaring up at Arthur with defensive azure eyes. He obviously didn’t want Arthur to be there. So Arthur took a seat across from him.

“What are you studying for?” He rested a cheek lazily against his fist, and discreetly pulled one of Francis’s loose papers across the table.

“Nothing zat is having to do with you! Hey--give me zat--” He made a mad grab for the paper, but Arthur flourished it out of his reach, and then sat back in his chair to examine it. The sheet was loaded with words scribbled in French and translated into English; there were also a few diagrammed sentences, some notes written entirely in French with arrows pointing to circled words, columns of the same word written over and over again, and even a couple of drawings.

“English?” He looked up to see that Francis was leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed, as if he were trying to look cool and relaxed, though it really came off as looking tense and defeated. 

“Yes, well” he flipped some of his hair over his shoulder, in all the manner of someone about to give some sort of snobbish retort, but then only came out with, “It is not as though ‘earing ‘ow I speak should be making it any surprising for you.”

Arthur blinked down at the intensely marked up paper in his hand. “How long have you been going at this?”

“One hour and a 'alf.”

“No, I mean, how long have you been coming to the library and doing this?”

“A week.”

Arthur was astonished just how much... _effort_ he saw loaded onto the paper. Francis had started this habit a week ago...and with all this effort he still had looked so frustrated when he put his head down on the table.

“Are you...doing all right?”

Francis frowned. “What do you mean ‘doing all right’? I am not sick.”

“I mean about this. And about school. Are your grades okay?”

Francis crossed his arms, looking shaky and annoyed. “Again, it is nothing zat is having to do with you.”

Arthur put the paper back down on the table. “You know, you’re over complicating that sentence.”

“ _Excusez moi_?”

“You don’t have to say ‘that is having’. It sounds loads better if you just say ‘that has’. Or if you really must, say ‘having’, without the extra ‘that’.”

Francis stared at him. There was a moment where Arthur stared back testily, expecting some sort of outraged reaction at the blunt correction. But after that moment, Francis repeated his sentence. “It is nothing that has to do with you. It is nothing having to do with you.”

Arthur nodded. “Right.”

“Give me zat” Francis demanded, reaching across the table and swiping his paper away from Arthur’s side.

“Well fine, if you’re gonna be all--”

“Repeat what you said. I want to write it down.”

“Demanding much? Alright, then…” Arthur reiterated what he had said and watched as Francis added to his notes. At one point when he was copying the sentences, Arthur pointed out a spelling error, and Francis rolled his eyes, but took the time to fix it carefully.  
As he was doing this, Arthur took some of his other notes to look over; the french student’s eyes followed him narrowly, but still, he didn’t protest. After a few moments of silent notetaking on Francis’s part and note reading on Arthur’s, Arthur began pointing out more mistakes in Francis’s work.

“Francis, look here...you keep muddling up when to use ‘we’ and ‘us’...and over here you didn’t form the adverb version of that correctly. The spelling of the ending of the word changes too, you can’t just add ‘ly’ to the end of it and expect it to be right.” 

“ _Monsieur je-sais-tout…_ ” Francis muttered poisonously under his breath.

Arthur ignored him, deciding to be the mature one. “You're not going to improve if you don’t fix it. I know it probably isn’t easy for you, but you’re never going to get your grades up if you don’t--”

“Pardon?!” Immediately Francis was bristling at him, looking fiery and almost womanly in the haughty ferocity of his outrage. “I ‘ave not told to you a thing about my grades, so you ‘ave not a right to assume zat--”

“Oh come on” Arthur interrupted “It’s obvious looking at these that you can’t be doing very well in English class, at the very least. And it isn’t as though the notes and directions for things are translated to french in any of our other classes, so it’s hardly a stretch to think that this is dragging down your average in the other subjects too.”

Francis was silent, and glared at him in a way that told him he had hit the nail right on the head. Arthur sighed “You seem to be having a really tough time of it. When you came here, why did they put you in this level English class? It’s kind of cruel on the school’s part.”

Francis flipped some hair behind his shoulder “My grades were good enough at my old school so zat for when I transferred zey put me in a normal English class.”

“Why didn’t you apply for remedial classes? You probably could have gotten them.”

Francis spoke with his nose in the air. “Before now I ‘ad largely been ignoring trying to learn ze English well, as it is so much less tasteful than _le Français.”_

Well wasn’t that snide of him? Immediately, any sense of pity Arthur might have had for him evaporated, seeing him sitting there insulting the very language he was trying to learn. Arthur leaned across the table and slapped him roughly on the shoulder “Well you’re in England now, mate, so it’s about time you started picking up some bloody English.”

Francis made a frustrated sort of growl-slash-squeal. “Zat is what I ‘ave been doing, you blind dry teabag! So why do you not just be done with ze prying and finnish putting ze corrections on my notes!”

“Fine, I will! Keep studying and ask me if you have any questions!” Arthur snarled, snatching the notes up and glaring.

“Very well, thank you very much for your help!” Francis hissed, settling back violently in his chair.

Arthur took up his pen and said roughly “You’re quite welcome!”And then the librarian shushed them, and they promptly returned to their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations  
> non, non, ce n'est pas correct…: no, no, that can't be right/correct  
> Monsieur je-sais-tout: Mr know-it-all


	3. Chapter 3

“How about this one?” Arthur held up another flashcard, and Francis squinted at it, biting his lip. 

He stared at the French phrase “ _De même_ ” and said slowly, “It is what you are saying when you want to mean zat ze thing you are talking about is ze same as ze thing you were talking about.”

Arthur thumbed the card. “God, that was awful sentence structure. And I already know you understand what it is. You’re reading off the french side for crying out loud! I need the same word _in English_.”

Today was Friday, the evening of freedom. They had been in the library for almost three hours, and it was starting to get dark outside. The extra lights had flickered on long ago, but neither of them had really noticed the progression of time.

Francis rolled his eyes, and snatched the card from Arthur. “You are wrinkling it, _imbécile_! Let me think…” He stared intensely at the card’s french side for another moment, as if willing some psychic entity to flood his brain with knowledge if he focused hard enough.

Arthur gave him a second, before prying the card out of his hand(much to the other’s protest) and flipping it over. “Similarly. ‘Similarly’ means ‘ _de même_ ’. Like you would use in an essay. ”

Francis closed his eyes and groaned. “ _Merde_. Alright, put it in ze bad pile.”

Arthur tutted. “Not so fast. Use it in a sentence first.”

Francis sighed, and plopped his chin onto his hand. “I am not good at English. Similarly, Arthur is not good at anything.”

Arthur snorted. “At least I can bloody speak it. Okay, let’s go ahead and put that in the pile of failures--I mean, the pile of cards to get back to.” He picked up another. “Alright, tell me what this means.”

It only took a moment for Francis to answer “ _salle de bains_ is bathroom.”

“Good.” Arthur put it in the easy pile and then held up another: ‘ _fébrile_ ’.

Francis winced and moaned, “Ohhh, I am unhappy because it starts with ze same letter, and I know zat ze words look ze same…”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Do you know it?”

Francis stared at it for about twenty seconds, before looking past the card at Arthur’s face and saying “Give me a hint.”

“It’s how you would tell the nurse if you were feeling sick, like if your head was hot. It’s got a letter V in it.”

“Feeee...Hmm. Fevair?”

Arthur made a ‘yeah, keep going…’ motion with his hand, and Francis sounded out slowly 

“Fee...vair...ish?”

“Yep. Feverish.” He put the card down, wavering before deciding to put it in the ‘not learned’ pile. Then he looked up at Francis again. “Oh, and by the way, I noticed you say you were ‘unhappy’ because you didn’t know the word. A better word to use there would have been ‘frustrated’ or ‘annoyed’. It’s more specific to the feeling you had, and it just sounds better.”

“Oh, okay zen. Thank you.”

Arthur nodded before picking up the next card: ‘ _donc_ ’.

Francis gave a low whistle “It is a word so much longer in English...how would you say it? Hmm…”

“The first syllable sounds the same at the third person plural possessive pronoun in English.”

Francis stared at him incredulously “What kind of a hint is zat?!”

“An educational one. And a good one, if you could understand what I was saying.”

“Well what in hell are you saying?!”

Arthur took out a sheet of paper and pen, to which Francis immediately made fake gagging sounds. “What is the first person singular?”

“I do not know!”

“Yes you do, you use it all the time! First person means you are talking about yourself.”

“I?”

“Yes. Now what is the possessive version of that?”

“My?”

“Yes. Now list me off all the pronouns. This is pretty basic stuff, mind you.”

As Francis began listing off “I, you, he, she , it, we, you, they” Arthur scribbled them down on the paper, and then circled ‘they’. 

Pointing to it with the pen he said “I circled it because it’s the third person plural.”

“I already knew zat.” Francis sniffed haughtily. 

“Brilliant. You must be thumping prodigy. So tell me what the possessive version of that is.”

“Their.”

“Right. So the first syllable of the word you’re looking for sounds like that.”

Francis looked at the flashcard again. “Donc...their...there...oh. Therefore.”

“Yup. Now use it in a sentence.”

That’s how their study sessions often went. Every few days, once it seemed the current words had been drilled into the very core of Francis’s memory, Arthur would go home and write up a fresh batch of flashcards, and bring them in the next day. The vocabulary Arthur thought up were often words he figured would be useful in school, such as “Contrasting” “Analysis” “Hydrogen bonds” or “Evidently.” He also tried including a few possibly useful phrases such as “I need help” or “I don’t know where I am” but Francis seemed to already know things like that, and took offense to them, as more than one in a single deck seemed to suggest that he was incapable of taking care of himself. Arthur responded by upping them to phrases such as “call poison control” and “does anyone know CPR?” and “going into cardiac arrest”, which he became very smug over when they effectively stumped the other student.

He was pleased to hear Francis’s fluency progress over time, and as the weeks progressed, studying after school in the library with Francis and the flashcards became an everyday habit. In truth, it was just about the most time he had ever spent with another person his age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:  
> merde: shit


	4. Chapter 4

“Alright everybody take out a piece of paper and pencil. You are now going to have a timed essay.”

The entire class groaned. Francis wilted in his chair. He had no problem with writing...in _French_. He had slowly noticed himself improving, yes, but he was still by no means completely comfortable with his second language. Though he was good enough to usually get by for smaller assignments, writing out full papers in entirely English was just so _tiring_. Even if he knew exactly the kind of point he wanted to make, he would always get stalled by not knowing the right word he needed to hit it home. Generally, he would have to resort to substituting in a whole cluster of simpler words that he did know just to finish off the main idea, which never looked good on paper and was such a headache to do.

The prompt ‘How does history contribute to modern culture’ was written on the board and Francis took a moment to ponder a few examples. Glancing around, he saw others already writing and soon delved into the assignment himself. Like any other student, he filled in the first paragraph with a load of crap. His opening sentence looked like this:  
_“A people’s culture is an ~~empor~~ ~~impor~~ ~~emportente~~ ~~impurtante~~ big part of their ~~indent~~ ~~indetify~~ ~~intentity~~ ~~ind~~ who they are._

After suffering through another few rounds of that, he finally reached the place for a thesis, and wrote:  
_It is evident that culture is ~~govermented~~ ~~goveur~~ ~~gouverned~~ shaped in large part by history when examining how societies differ in fashion, food, and language, from both eachother and from their older selves throughout the ~~sentourie~~ ~~centories~~ time.”_

Speaking of which, Francis glanced to the clock, and nearly died. He had already spent half an hour of his sixty minute time frame writing an introduction. A crappy introduction. Running a hand through his hair, he began his first body paragraph and eventually was writing very quickly, as the topic was something he actually knew a surprising amount on.

 _“...because chainmail is now an ~~unpracticle~~ impractical piece for actual combat armour, the appearance of it in decorative pieces, such as the use of it in the epaulettes of members of the current British territorial army, as well as in much lingerie, is proof that military history has ~~influaseuce~~ influenced current fashion trends. Similarly, in the 1800’s...”_ Alright! This was going well! He was just starting to get carried away with describing how other English fashion trends throughout history had been poor imitations of French creations, due to the long held secret admiration of one nation for another, and the age old entwinement of complicated but familiar foreign relations, when something devastating happened.

His pencil broke. He looked up. Nowhere in the room could he see a pencil sharpener. Swiftly, he attempted to rummage around for a spare writing utensil in his pencil case, but found none. His next move was to try and wedge the little point of graphite back up the tiny wooden cavern of the pencil tip, but he soon realized that was a only wasting his time.

Leaning over to a student next to him, he murmured “ _Excusez-moi_ , but do you have any extra pencil? Mine has broke.” 

The red-haired student responded with a wide grin. “Your pencil broke? Well that’s a right shame mate! I don’t have a spare, but me and my friend here can tell you what to do…”

Arthur heard some annoying students making noise. Scowling, he looked up from his essay to see a few kids in the back whispering to each other, which was certainly against the rules, and certainly very rude, and certainly...expected. His scowl deepened when he saw that they were speaking to Francis. Of course that delinquent was at the epicenter of a class disruption. Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he saw one of the other students whisper something behind his hand into Francis’s ear, and Francis nod affirmatively. Was he… Was he _cheating?_ After all the work the two of them had put into improving his English?! Hell no. That was absolutely inexcus--

But then Francis did something unexpected. He stood up, and strode to the spot in front of the teacher’s desk. Arthur’s eyes followed him, and then snapped back to the other students, who were still seated, and were smirking and snickering uncontrollably to one another. 

Instantly an ominous feeling sunk into his system. Something wasn’t right here…

And then Francis spoke. Holding up a broken pencil in front of the professor, he said, not loudly, but certainly loud enough to be heard by the class “I need a new knob because I broke it trying to bugger myself with this while I was tossing off to my essay.”

There was a silence. Not a student was willing to speak, as the teacher’s face turned steadily red. Then finally... “MR. BONNEFOY THAT IS NO WAY TO SPEAK TO A TEACHER!”

As Francis’s face fell in confusion and shock, the teacher angrily ushered him to the door, talking about needing to discuss this with him in the office, and nobody else ought to move or talk to each other if they didn’t want to be in serious trouble as well. As soon as the door slammed behind them, the class burst out laughing.

“Ahahaha! I can’t believe he actually said it!”  
“Did you see her _face_ when he said that bit about sticking it to himself?!”  
“I figured there was something queer about that bloke, but I never would have guessed he was so desperate as to get off with _pencils!_ ”  
“That was brilliant...do you think he knew what he was saying?”

Arthur sat in shock. He would have focused on trying to complete his essay, but he was too flabbergasted. Normally that would have been very funny. It _was_ very funny. But, judging by the sneering faces of the two students before Francis spoke up, and judging by the absolutely crushed face of Francis after the teacher yelled, it was obvious that Francis hadn’t known what he was saying. Which, in just about any other circumstance would have made it about fifteen times more hilarious, but in this instance, made Arthur feel just about sick. What a dirty joke to play on a foreign student...even if he was a stuck up and French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about what exactly Francis said, all will be revealed in the next chapter ( •̀ᴗ•́ )


	5. Chapter 5

About 40 minutes later than their usual time, Francis met Arthur in the library. He looked weary as he slung his bag over the chair and then collapsed into it himself. 

“Hey” Arthur greeted him, looking up from his work.

Francis brought his knees up and curled up in the chair. “ _Bonjour_.” Resting his cheek against the armrest and closing his eyes, he looked absolutely spent. 

“You alright?” 

He made a very vague “Mmf” sound, and Arthur grew more concerned. 

“They didn’t give you a detention did they?”

“Non. I was late because I had to stay after to finish my essay.”

“So you didn’t get in trouble?”

Francis raised his head stared at him. “I got screamed at and sent to ze office!”

“Right, but you didn’t get any disciplinary action past that, did you?”

Francis sighed. “Non. When I went to ze office everybody was mad, but I still didn’t know why, and I had to explain to zem zat I had been, uh...misinformed of the true meanings of ze words I was saying." He swallowed dryly. "It was...really hard though. To try to explain to zem, I mean.”

Arthur supposed it must have been. For a foreign student with a somewhat shaky grip on English to try to explain to an angry group of adults that he had been tricked, and not even fully knowing what he had been tricked into saying.

“Did you pin it on those blokes in the back who told you to say it?”

“Non. That is only more trouble, Arthur.”

Arthur wasn’t so sure about that, and part of him wanted to harass Francis into going back to the principal to seek justice, but the rest of him realized that now wasn’t really the time.

Instead he asked (mostly out of curiosity), "Did they...tell you what it meant?”

Francis gave him a look. “Of course not.”

Arthur pursed his lips. How was that supposed to help anybody?! If Francis was going to go through the trauma of getting yelled at by the staff and laughed at by the students, he at least deserved to know why! “Do you want be to tell you?”

Francis blinked up at him with blue eyes Arthur couldn’t help but think of as currently innocent to the ways of British dirty words. “Oui.”

Arthur glanced around the library, and then leaned in, to make sure no one overheard. Francis came closer too.

Arthur began in a low voice, “knob is slang for penis. Bugger--well, bugger is something we use all the time just to sort of show annoyance, like saying ‘oh, bugger off’, or sometimes to show fondness, like ‘that little bugger over there forgot his coloring book’ or something like that. But what it actually means is...is anal. You know, as in sodomy?”

Francis was watching him raptly, as if this were the most interesting and important English lesson in the world. 

Arthur continued. “The way you said it made it definitely sound like the last definition. And the last part you said was ‘tossing off’? That means having a wank.”

“What iz a wank?”

“It means masturbating.”

“Oh.”

Arthur nodded. “So what you effectively said was ‘I need a new penis because I broke it trying to shove this pencil up my arse wilst I was masturbating to my essay’.”

Francis shifted in his chair and said simply, “Oh my. What an image.”

“Oi! You better be imagining it with yourself, and not me!”

Francis covered his eyes and groaned, “Ah! Now I am imagining it with both of us!”

Arthur yelped, his face searing with color. “Cut it out you bloody pervert!”

“I cannot help it!”

Arthur whacked him on the head with a book. “You’re the one who went and said it in front of the entire class! To the _teacher!_ You know, you’re never going to be able to live this down, the entire class was laughing about you being a poof afterwards!”

“What iz a ‘poof’?”

Arthur sighed exasperatedly, and sunk back into his chair. “Poof. Sausage jockey. Queer. You _know_ , a bleedin’ homosexual!”

Francis scoffed. “Homosexual?! Moi!?” He tossed back some of his hair and with his nose up said, “I couldn’t dream of being something so selective. I am a pansexual. Not ze same.”

Arthur nearly choked on the air he was breathing. “You ARE into guys?!”

“Oui. And ze ozzers too. Though perhaps I like men a little more.”

Arthur really wasn’t sure why he was speechless. Honestly, the only surprise should have been that Francis wasn’t completely into guys in the first place. Arthur supposed he had before now chalked up some of Francis’s more...stereotypically ‘not straight’ attributes... to being French.

“Are you straight?” Francis’s voice pulled Arthur from this corner of his mind and sent him reeling through an entirely different one.

“What? I don’t--of course! Of course I am you pervert!” He sputtered, hating himself for turning red in the face.

Francis cocked his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Arthur claimed defensively. “And you shouldn’t go around telling people that you’re not because they are going to be laughing at you enough as it is for being stupid enough to say all that crap to a teacher!” 

He knew before he finished saying it that it was a little harsh, but Francis might as well be taught now instead of suffering through not knowing how to censor himself when he got back to school. Still, he had got an odd feeling when he saw Francis flinch and become morose again. Arthur swiftly patted him on the knee, before remembering that he was into men and on top of that in possession of a perverted imagination. Pulling out his books and flashcards he said staunchly, “And now it’s time for you to start studying your English. Come on, you don’t want to be an illiterate idiot forever, get to it!”

Francis took one look at the flashcard in front of him and whimpered, before curling up back into a ball and hiding his face. 

Immediately Arthur had a sinking feeling that he had pushed too much. In a softer tone he said, “Come on now, just look at the flashcard. Just a little peek, Francis.”

A muffled voice responded, “Non. I cannot do it. I hate English.”

“You hate English?”

“I hate ze language. I hate ze class. And I hate ze people.”

Arthur saw his shoulders trembling a little as he said it. He was quiet for a moment. “Do you hate me?”

He heard a little sniff, and then an answer. “Non. Not you. Only ze mean ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight, everybody remember this is from Arthur's perspective--This chapter does not endorse going and up and saying someone has "stereotypically 'not straight'" behaviors because of nationality...I am not responsible for any bar fights y'all get into if people ever start going abroad again...
> 
> Don't know I really need to say that but the internet makes me nervous 😅


	6. Chapter 6

_‘It was then that the knight realized it had been this flaxen haired maiden who had summoned him through the mirror pool of the faerie-folk. Dismounting from his steed he approached her on foot, and with a cautious hand beckoned to her. But in that instant, her peacock blue eyes flashed terror and she made an unintelligible, almost inhuman noise, before bounding into the marshy depths of the bewitched moor. Cursing his own lack of tact, the knight swung a leg over his horse and flew into the wilderness after her…’_

“Stop it! _Tais-toi_! I’m leaving!”

“Haha! Fine, if that’s what you want, keep on running, Frenchie!” 

Arthur’s eyes snapped up from his book, just in time to witness a disruption going on across the cafeteria. Next thing he knew, Francis was stalking over to him, looking pale, angry, and upset. Slamming his things down on the table, he gave a tight: “I am sitting with you today.” Taking the seat across from Arthur, he sat so that his back was hunched against the rest of the cafeteria, which continued on chattering and chomping as if nothing had happened.

Arthur blinked, and set his book aside. “What happened? What did they do?” he asked immediately.

Francis stabbed a plastic fork into the nearly untouched food in front of him and in a low tone answered, “Zey keep calling me names. And telling me to say words I do not know.”

 _“Barmy halfbred buncha tossers…”_ Arthur muttered, glowering fiercely in the direction of Francis’s old table. Half of him had a mind to get up right now and report them to the Headmistress. The other half was begging to skip all that so he could walk right over and punch them all in the mouth instead.

Francis looked both sour and distressed. “Do not look at zem, Arthur. Do not make eye contact or zey might bozzer you too.”

Arthur pushed himself to half standing, green eyes glittering malevolently as he growled, “I can make eye contact with whomever I bloody well want.”

Francis grabbed his arm, looking alarmed. “Arthur, no! You are acting like a punk! I came over here so zat I would not be alone, not so zat you would run off to tear at zeir heads like a big mad bulldog!” His voice became urgent, and strangled. “Just...sit down. Please.”

Arthur clenched his jaw and sat down slowly. He sighed, and then, shaking his head as if to clear it, resumed again a demeanor of simmering, yet collected broodiness. “Fine. If that’s what you want.” He noticed Francis sigh with relief, and he added quickly, “But don’t think I’m just gonna drop this.” Something had to be done about it.

***

By the time Francis got to the library that evening, Arthur was already there. Sitting with his legs crossed and his hand to his chin, he looked as if he were some sort of dark mafioso, ready to bombdrop his newest scheme. Recognizing the same mood that had been acquired at lunchtime, Francis rolled his eyes and slung his bag over his chair. “Are you going to help me study, Arthur? Or keep on with ze pouting?”

Arthur leaned forward and folded his hands over the table. “Francis, I’ve decided something.”

Francis gave a small, mocking laugh. “Oh? And what would zat be, Sir-of-ze-Great-Decision-Making?”

“I’ve decided that what you’ve been learning isn’t good enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> french translation:  
> Tais-toi: Shut up


	7. Chapter 7

“Let’s take it slow.”

“Oui.”

“I’ll go easy on you at first, but after that it’s gonna be harder. Alright?”

“Oui.”

“Okay then. _Snog._ ”

Arthur held up a flashcard, the first of his new batch. Francis wrinkled his nose. “'Snog?' It sounds so ugly.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, and thumbed the corner of the paper. “It’s slang, get over it.” The card he was holding was of pink oaktag. On Francis’s side was the slang word, and on the hidden side was the normal English version of it (to kiss), as well as the French word ( _embrasser_ ), in case Francis didn’t understand.

Francis cocked his head innocently. “Is it sex?”

“No, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

Francis frowned. “I have never seen zis word. Give me a hint.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smirk a little bit. “It’s what you people are most known for.”

Francis stared at him for one burp of a second. Then: “So it isn’t sex?”

“God no! Come on now, it’s what the _French_ are most _known_ for?”

Blue eyes stared at him blankly as Francis’s voice halteringly dribbled out, “La..guillotine…?” As if he really had no bloody clue as to what the French were most known for. 

Arthur sighed exasperatedly, and then flipped over the card. “Kiss. Like the slobbery, romantic kind? You may also hear the word ‘snogging’, which is the participle form of it.” 

It was two days later. The boys were in the library again, though they had chosen a much more secluded corner of it. Arthur didn’t particularly fancy the idea of some three-year-old or some sixty-year-old toddling over to hear him teaching another kid questionable vocabulary. 

He set it aside and pulled another. “Copping off.”

“Hmm. Does it have anything to do with handcuffs?”

“No. It’s pretty much the same definition as the last one. Pervert.”

Francis looked bemused. “ So just...kissing?”

“Yep.”

They went through a few more ones that were all pretty much just synonyms of ‘to snog’--all of which were on pink index cards, which Francis seemed to pick up on after a few of them. “Isn’t it cheating if I know what ze answer will be before I even look at ze word?”

Arthur raised his chin. “No, it isn’t as though this were a test. There are so many words all meaning the same thing, and color association I’ve decided is the best way for you to recognize them for what they are when you see them. Don’t question my teaching!” Grumbling to himself, he shuffled through his cards until he found an orange one. “If you’re so bored, then tell me what this one means. _KNOB._ ”

Francis paled. “You know I know what zat one means!”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched with satisfaction. “Yeah? Do I?”

Francis narrowed his eyes and snatched the card away. Rolling it up into a tube, he kept his eyes vengefully on Arthur's as he ran the length of his tongue along it, and then slapped it down in the learned pile, saying, “Knob. Dick. Le pénis--pardon my French. It iz the male reproductive organ, the one zat belongs to ze gender which is my sexual preference. Need I use it in a sentence? Some day I am going to make love to someone with a big, hard _knob_.”

Francis ruffled his feathers superiorly as he watched Arthur turn almost every shade of the tricolor. Leaning closer, he made wide, innocent eyes; with a tone dripping evil honey, he jutted his lip out in a pout, and asked, “What is it _Cher_? Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Rolling his eyes, but internally cursing the steam he could feel practically sizzling off his face, he responded, “Yeah, but only because I can smell frog legs and cheese on your breath. Stop breathing by bloody air!” That was a lie though. It was really much more bothersome that Francis didn’t smell like stinky cheese--in fact, it was something closer to roses. But of course Arthur wouldn’t point that out.

Francis sat back and slipped on a true pout, saying, “I know zat zis place is a monarchy, but I never thought zat ze remnants of feudalism would extend to ze atmosphere as well.”

“ _Constitutional_ monarchy! Get it right!” Arthur snapped, shuffling through his cards. Choosing a new one, he grumbled, “At least we don’t go around lobbing people’s heads off for a hobby” --At least his own head had cooled off a little by now--“And don’t get distracted. Here comes the next one.”

Francis made a little “Hmf” sound, before settling back down to try the card. It was a good thing the next one-”baby batter”- stumped Francis. It was another orange one, and when the French boy saw the color he confidently said “Penis!”. 

“No. You’re wrong.” Arthur said, even himself hearing the snarky note in his tone. “It means semen.”

Francis stared at him impassively. “See-man? What is zat?”

Arthur sighed exasperatedly and flipped over to where the French word was. “You know, the stuff that comes _out_ of a willy?”

“Ohohoho!” Francis exclaimed. He narrowed his eyes, and pointed accusatory at Arthur. “I see what you are doing! You think you are so clever, eh? You are trying to give me ze confuse! You make it orange like ze last one and you tell me ‘oh! All ze colors mean ze same’ and zen you make zis one different. Zat is very sneaky, Arthur.”

“'You are trying to confuse me'” Arthur corrected. “And I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about” he said composedly. “I simply decided that the topic, and therefor color, of this word fit most appropriately into the category of ‘penis’. Serves you right for assuming.” And yet the corner of his mouth upturned suspiciously as he put it into the ‘not learned’ pile.

They went through a few more, some of which were Arthur’s personal favorites: bollocks, rubbish, dobber, bloody, and of course, wanker. Francis didn’t get any of them, which was good for knocking that smug look he had acquired after the ‘knob’ scenario, though it also showed they had a lot of work to do.

“Blimey” Arthur sighed, putting down ‘chap’ in the ‘not learned’ pile. “You’d think you haven’t been in the country more than a week, or picked up a single Harry Potter book in your life. You’re really bad at this!”

Francis looked offended. “It is not my fault zat you English people have a second language zat is practically not even English! And I did read Harry Potter, only it was in French!”

“Sodding heresy…” Arthur muttered, before coming back with, “Well I know for a fact that I use over half these words on a regular basis; I guess I’m just surprised they haven’t rubbed off on you yet.”

Francis smirked. “Per’aps my ears are simply too innocent to pick up on the vulgarities zat spew from your mouth.”

Arthur barked with mirth. “Ha! You? Innocent? Daft, more like it.” 

They made their way through about three quarters of the deck, with Francis getting them all wrong almost every single time. It was almost concerning; Arthur realized that in this country, Francis really was vulnerable. If at any time over the next few days, one of the kids from school decided to pick on him, he would be in solemn trouble. As Arthur observed those bird blue eyes staring blankly at the card time and time again, he calmed himself only with the reassurance that this was only the first, no...second, no... third time through the deck…

After two days, he added a few more cards, though Francis was still incredibly shaky on the first ones. He picked them out meticulously, deciding on ones he felt were most likely to be used against the French boy: ponce, shag, surrender monkey, nancy, poofter. Some of them were words he thought even he had mentioned before, but Francis didn’t seem to know them. Not until the third to last card did the pattern change.

The card 'Rent boy' was drawn, and for the first time Francis made a sound of recognition. “Wait-wait..I have heard zis one before!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You have? Why?” He had never used it. For one flicker of a moment Arthur was visited by suspicion, concern. Francis was a little loose but he surely wasn’t so desperate as to…?

“Ze ones at lunch said it to me.”

“Oh” Arthur felt a dim flash of unrecognized relief, before it was replaced by a protective sense of irateness. Knuckles whitening, he turned the card over to show ‘male prostitute’ as the definition. Francis was quiet for a moment as he stared at it, before he shook his golden head and gave a somewhat shaky laugh. “Oh, non, _ce n'est pas moi_.”

Arthur put the card down without comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ce n'est pas moi: that is not me


	8. Chapter 8

“Francis, Francis, why aren’t you getting this!?” Arthur uttered somewhat hysterically. They were already two weeks into their new regiment, and Francis didn’t seem to be retaining anything. 

Francis responded to his agitation with equal and opposite fluster. “I cannot say! I do not know! Zis-zis is not _easy_ , Aurthur! You are ignorant to think it is easy!”

A sour rumble of _“You’re the one who’s easy…damn croaker…”_ circulated as Arthur tried to collect himself and reshuffle all his flashcards. He glanced to the library window. It was edged with a breathy border of fog, and drops of water were splattered across it. The thrum of the downpour outside was muffled but constant. Normally this weather would have been soothing--perfect conditions to sit in the library and read or study. But with the blond frenchman sitting across from him, always looking to him with those clueless blue eyes, Arthur was feeling an undeniable sense of agitation and anxiety. Those stupid eyes! With all their cluelessness, they had somehow found a way to ruin Arthur's favorite type of weather. 

Arthur sighed and put up another flashcard. Francis didn’t get it, and Arthur felt another wave of itchy anxiety. This was Francis’s failing, not his, he told himself. But after so much time devoted to helping Francis become fluent, it was hard to not think of the two as one and the same.

“ _On the pull.”_

“Um...it means zat...you are...doing sex.”

“No. Looking for sex. Next one: _Up the duff.”_

“I forget.”

“Pregnant, Francis! It means you are pregnant! Okay, I’m going to do a _really_ easy one, alright? If you don’t get it I’ll have to kick you to Australia. Ready?”

Francis looked pale. “Yes?”

_“Loo.”_

Francis winced. An excruciating wait passed, and then: “Ze...bedroom?”

Arthur groaned and shook his head. “Why are you so bad at this?”

Francis rested his cheek solemnly on his hand. It seemed he had little answer. However, as they started going through a few more rounds, his expression slowly changed, and all of a sudden he said “Arthur!”

“SHAG--uh--yeah?”

Arthur was interrupted from his flashcard to see Francis wearing an expression he didn’t at all like. It was too--happy? No. Ominous.

Francis gave a mix of his most charming, teasing smile “Arthur?” He said sweetly.

“What, already?!” Seeing that look on the other’s face was enough to make his tone about a thousand times more tense.

Francis’s eyelashes fluttered briefly as his lip curled and he said “Arthur, I have noticed zat you have not been asking for me to use zem in sentences.”

Arthur tried to appear blasé as he shuffled through the deck again. “Oh, have you?” Green eyes stayed focused sternly on the desk top.

Francis took a piece of golden hair from his temple and twirled it around his finger, in something that failed abysmally to pass for an absent minded action. His eyes were shimmering with mischief. “Oui, zis I have noticed. It is hard to not, when I recall ze many times you said to me ‘Francis, Francis, you bloody frog, now use it in a sentence!’. It was annoying, but effective. And now you have stopped. Why? I wonder.” He paused in the twirling of his hair to glance quickly to Arthur, before carrying on with “How am I supposed to remember wise words when I never use zem _dans le contexte_? Hm?"

Arthur's hefty eyebrows furrowed on his forehead, which seemed to be turning red. “That--that was different. Those words were for school.”

“Do not ze kids use zis language in school too?”

“Well, yes” Arthur was speaking quickly now “But they can be used in any context so there’s no use bothering to memorize them that way. Now shut up and let me do things my way.”

Of course Francis didn’t shut up. That French mouth just kept blabbering on. “But Arthur! I am not learning! Aren’t you supposed to want for me to le--!”

Cutting him off, Arthur snarled “ _Well maybe I just don’t want to bloody hear them in complete sentences!”_

There was a tick of silence. And then:

“Ze ozzer day” Francis started, looking haughtily down at Arthur, “A boy approached me in ze bathroom.” Arthur froze. Francis’s eyes flashed with power. “His eyes were--how do you say--? Ah, yes, _shifting_ all around ze place. He takes a ten pound note from his jacket, and says, in zat coarse tongue all you british types seem to possess: ‘Oi Frog, I hear you give a good jobby’. “ Francis paused, and watched carefully. Arthur’s left hand had balled into a fist. His right hand, the one holding the flashcards, did not. Slowly, he raised his head, and glared at Francis with the most venomous expression alive--the sort of look that didn’t make Francis flee from the spot only because he knew the emotion wasn’t entirely directed at himself.

“What?” A low, menacing growl from the green eyed one.

“I know!” -Francis put on a high tone of offense- “You’d think I’d be worth more than ten!”

Arthur didn’t look amused. “Well? Did you do it?” 

“It? At the time I did not know what ‘it’ was!”

“Well you obviously looked it up after, or-or found out some way! Or else you wouldn’t be trying to use this to manipulate me, you sodding bastard!”

Francis touched his hand to his heart and made a little offended noise. “ _Moi_? Manipulating you? With your intellect, I doubt ze sort of thing could be accomplished with mere tales of ze bathroom!”

Arthur rolled his eyes, and then narrowed them. “You didn’t answer the question. Did you suck him off, or not?”

It was then that Francis’s demeanor shifted. Glancing nervously to Arthur, he looked away and bit his lower lip. Arthur paled. “You--you _did_ \--! Francis you--”

Francis interrupted “No, I did not, very pleased to know you have high expectations of me--” He shot Arthur a little glare, before continuing “But you are not going to like hearing what I did do.”

“Out with it.”

“I didn’t know quite what to do, so I--” He winced and put his face in his hands, in a true display of cringeful regret. “I just smiled and nodded. And zen I took his money and walked away.”

Arthur gaped at him. “You took _prostitute_ money? And then _walked away?!”_ This would have been terribly funny if not for… “Francis, you know he might go after you for this! He might expect something from you!”

“Hmf! I doubt he would do zat; if I were him think I would be too ashamed of getting stiffed.”

It took all of Arthur’s strength to not grab the Frenchman by the head a shake him till whatever fluttering excuse for a brain he had came slipping out his ears. “Even so! This does nothing to help your reputation! Francis--there is literally _nobody_ who isn't going to take you for some sort of cheap foreign hooker! I can’t believe you would just--URGH!”

Francis didn’t seem nearly as perturbed as he should have been. “What is done iz done. Ze only thing for this moment is to look into ze future, and try to improve ourselves with all ze determination we can muster.”

Arthur stared at him with mouth agape. Francis examined his nails for a moment, before saying evenly “So. Will you let me use them in sentences?”

In that moment, Arthur glared at Francis Bonnefoy and cursed him, his ancestors, and every power of fate which had lead his life into intersecting with his own. “Fine.” He snapped finally. “You can use them in sodding sentences.”


	9. Chapter 9

“After I eat british food, I want to use the loo...”

“Really? You are insufferable.”

“...but I can’t because it makes me constipated.”

Arthur closed his eyes and prayed for patience (that or a good murder alibi), before placing the card into the “learned” pile. Now that he had given permission to use all of these slang words in sentences, of course Francis was going to take it as an opportunity to be cheeky with him. What else had he been expecting? Though he had to admit, since they had resurrected this technique, the “learned” pile had been growing noticeably fatter. 

“Alright, wipe that grin off your face, here comes another.” Arthur flipped the card and waited for Francis’s reaction, throwing an oblong glance to the clock on the wall reading 5:45. They had been here for nearly four hours, three of which had been devoted to Francis learning how to utter profanity in grammatically sensible contexts.

“Is it what you do when you do oral?”

Arthur flipped the card, _Gagging_ , over so that Francis could see. “Maybe, but not here. When we say it, it means someone’s desperate.”

“Desperate? How do you mean?”

Arthur blinked. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped his lip thoughtfully, before saying, “You know   
how you feel if you haven’t had food in a while?”

“Cranky?”

“Alright, never mind food. How do you feel if you haven’t had water?

“Thirsty.”

“Right. If you haven’t had it in a long time, you might act stupid and do stupid things because you really need it. ‘Gagging’ is like that, except for sex.”

Francis flipped a ruffle of blonde hair over his shoulder and crossed his legs, nearly kicking Arthur under the table. “Pardon moi, but wasn’t ‘thirsty’ on another card?”

“Yep. But when both words are about sex, gagging sounds a tad more pathetic than thirsty. In my opinion, that is. These are the sort of nuances you’ll pick up with practice.”

Nestling his elbow onto his knee, Francis cupped his chin on the palm of his hand in such a way that his fingers traced the outline of his lips; fluttered his eyes, he smiled sweetly. “Practice?”

Arthur cooly glared back. “Yes. So use it in a sentence.”

“I am thirsty for Kendji Girac, and someday he will be gagging for me.”

A pair of bold eyebrows contracted. “What the bloody hell is a Kendji Girac?”

“He is a French singer I used to have a crush on.”

“He sounds like a twat.”

“Jealous?”

Arthur snorted disdainfully “Deary me, he doesn’t even understand the word ‘twat’ yet, poor child.”

Francis dropped his hand, uncrossed his legs and sagged back into his armchair with a posture and face that looked significantly less ladylike than before. “Oh, non, I think I know one when I see one” He said, eyeing Arthur darkly. “And what is with zis word ‘Child’? Am I not three months older than you?”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur repeated the word. “Child.” It was true, in his perspective.To Arthur, Francis seemed to be using every word he could to say something unnecessarily personal, and it was obviously a ploy to get on his tutor’s nerves.

Finally picking up on the patronizing usage of the word ‘child’, Francis bristled back with “Twat!”

“Oh, _look_ , Baby learned a new word.”

“Oh, so you are calling me ‘baby’ now, eh?”

“Would you rather I call you ‘tadpole’?”

“You, Monsieur, are a cunt.”

He had to admit, though, it was quite fun to annoy Francis back.“The pollywog learned another! How _smart_ he is.”

“Are you going to do another card, Cher?”

“Alright. If you’re going to be gagging for it. How about… _Slag_.” Arthur said, briskly peeling another layer off the deck. 

“Is it like a slut?”

Arthur flipped it over, revealing the words ‘dirty whore’. “Sort of, but a lot worse. Never call a woman this if you don’t want forty lashings.”

Francis sniffed haughty. “I wouldn’t call a woman either of those.”

“Great. Good luck using them in a sentence.”

Arthur got a perfect view of Francis’s eyes as the man dropped his tone to a pitchy, submissive drawl and said “I am a grimy, slutty slag.” 

Something in Arthur's gut involuntarily purred at the way Francis said it. Before he could even identify the feeling, his voice deepened and he growled out “Too right you are...” in a tone much too hungry to be his normal sarcasm.

At first he didn’t realize it, though; he was distracted by the Francis’s lips...the source of all this stumblingly used profanity was Francis's lips, after all. They were much pinker than the average male’s, though they were on the thinner side. They were surrounded by a light, sandy stubble that alloted about point-three-percent ruggedness to the otherwise feminine appearance.. Those damn lips...suddenly Arthur realized that they were smirking, and immediately he was knocked from his musings.

“...And it’s nothing to be proud about, Frog.” He gave Francis a chiding glare as he tacked on this to the rest of his sentence., and recollected his thoughts. Really, he told himself assertively, if Francis didn’t want to be made fun of, he’d have to learn to pretend that he wasn’t a horny freaking pervert all the time.

They went through a few more with similar meanings--sket, slapper, scrubber, tart-- before transitioning to others.

“I still don’t see how how a balloon knot can mean _l'anis.”_

“It’s just what it is, alright?”

“But if it is a _hole_ then how can you say it is _knot_? Has any briton ever even _seen_ his own butthole?!”

“Maybe our’s just aren’t stretched out and flapping in the summer breeze like a pair of saggy wet socks all the jolly time.”

“Maybe they are continuously plugged up by 3 meter sticks.”

_“Francis, your butthole is a balloon knot, and that’s final.”_

“I think your mouth is a balloon knot.”

“Great. Fantastic. That was your sentence. Next card.”

“Wait--I wanted to use it in a different sentence!”

“Too late. Moving on. _Twit.”_

“A person without any sense. An idiot.”

“What? Oh no, that wasn’t on the card, I was just saying it.”

Sometimes they engaged in what Arthur sometimes liked to call ‘immersive learning opportunities’. When Francis began asking him what that meant, he described it in layman's terms as: arguments over the stupidest bloody shit, in which it was obvious that he was going to win and Francis was just full of actual-diarrhea-consistency-type codswallop.

As they went on, Arthur noticed that Francis was starting to incorporate multiple vocabulary words into each of his sentences. He didn’t say anything about it though. He knew it was a good sign that Francis was actually beginning to learn, and an excellent way to reinforce his knowledge. And yet, there was something about the spike in graphic description that made this whole thing...more difficult.

“I felt a tear roll down my face as I shoved ze vibrator through my balloon knot; panting, I turned up ze dial and cried out as my back curled from the spunk-stained mattress and I began to wank off to the rhythm of ze dildo and I imagined zat--”

Arthur stiffened, simultaneously turning numb and hot at the horrible, disgusting, undesirable, totally uncalled for image of Francis sprawled out across rumpled bedding, a halo of messy, sweat-tangled hair thrown across the pillowcase, while drool, and cum, and tears oozed out of every other orifice of his body-- 

“--Watch the run on sentence, Bonnefoy!” He snapped. His chest felt tight. He was gripping the arm of his chair with talons. 

“Aw…” Francis whined, and Arthur closed his eyes for a second, as if the voice were giving him a headache. When he looked again, Frances had on a disgustingly innocent look that made Arthur want to punch him in the mouth. Yeah, that’s definitely what he wanted to do to his mouth. 

“Are you alright?” Francis asked, blinking his wide blue eyes at him.

“Peachy.” Arthur hissed. “Next one.” He yanked another card from the deck, and slapped it on the table top.

Francis stared down at it, before pulling at a strand of hair and twizzling it around in thought. “Isn’t this an American one?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “It’s practically universal, with cultural exchange in film and whatnot. We say it better, though.”

“It means, ‘I am angry’.”

“Wrong.” Arthur flipped over the card _Fuck_ so that Francis could see the french side.   
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh~ohohon. Time for a sentence, non?”

“Just get it over with.”

Francis squinted for a moment at Arthur, as if he were imagining some sort of story to go along with his next sentence. After clearly having puzzled over the most artistic way to present it, he cleared his throat and said: “I moaned as he pushed his hard knob deep inside my arsehole, and began fucking me; by ze end of ze night, I lay on ze sheets with baby batter running down my trembling thighs, gazing up into a pair of emerald irises as he kissed me sweetly and whispered, ‘go to sleep, love.’”

There was a pang of very loud silence. In the span of that silence, Arthur decided that he had had enough. 

“Francis,” The green around his pupils glittered like a thorny trap as Arthur lowered his voice to a venomously forced tone of collected-ness. “Just what are you trying to do?”

Francis’s peacock blue eyes stared at him unblinkingly. His vocals shook as he breathed, “I am trying to get your attention.”

The lamps of the library buzzed above them. 

“And just what kind of attention do you want?”

The crap had been cut. A flutter of air sent a strand of Francis’s hair sailing wildly askew as he fumbled into the deck of cards and flourished one in front of his face “I want you to do this.”

_Snog._

Arthur raised his hand to the card--examining it, expression passive-- before curling his fingers over it and circling Francis’s wrist like a smooth marble vine. Drawing the French boy in, Arthur leaned across the table until he was close enough to hear the catch in Francis’s breath. He could have said anything, at that moment. He could have told Francis to bugger off. He could have told him to get out, lessons were over. He could have told him he was some sort of freak, and that he wanted to partake in none of this anymore.

And yet

“If it’ll get you to shut up for once.” He murmured. 

And they began to kiss.

They stayed still for a moment, feeding each other the simple vulnerability of having their lips connected. And then came the thirst; Francis’s mouth parted first, the corners barely siphoning in a little breath of air before Arthur latched on again--no, breathing was not allowed yet--and began drinking him in greedily. Francis’s tongue was swept up into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur gave him his, but not before he cracked the seal and murmured “So it’s true--French sluts do give tongue…”

And Francis responded by purring out “Only if we are dirty slappers…”

Arthur chuckled into the kiss, and pulled Francis closer; Francis responded by sliding from his chair to the table, then slowly, to Arthur’s lap. Meanwhile, Arthur bit Francis’s lip, growling “That’s punishment, you cheap, grotty whore…” After all this torture, he deserved it.

Francis continued sucking Arthur’s tongue, after responding “You can’t get enough of my filth, you randy arse bandit…”

Technically, this was still studying.

Francis’s arms crossed over Arthur's shoulders, his long hair providing a tickling tent of soft sunlight color in which their faces continued to connect. The hair became tangled in Arthur’s fingers when he cupped them over Francis’s head and pulled down, so he could deepen their snog. Meanwhile, Arthur’s other hand caressed Francis’s side, his hip, his ass, and Francis wriggled closer so his body was pressed flush to Arthur’s. 

Within the mussed golden curtain, Arthur watched Francis’s slightly elevated face escape for a moment of breath. A string of liquid silver clung from his mouth to Arthur’s. His cheeks were pink, his blue eyes dark in the shade, and sliding noticeably out of focus. 

It looked fucking fantastic.  
When this image combined with the pressure of Francis’s skinny jeans slapped across Arthur's lap, it wasn’t long before the thing in Arthur’s chest growled for more.

“Is this all you want, Frog?” He exhaled. He saw Francis’s eyes adjust to him in the dim light, before widening. The pressure on Arthur's lap slid slightly, delightfully, as Francis hurriedly bent to retrieve something off the table; another flash card was flourished in front of Arthur’s face.

“I want you to do this.”

_Shag._

Arthur’s grip on Francis’s waist tightened, his accent becoming corser. “Yeh manky slag, yer just gagging to get stuffed, aren’t yeh?”

As if profanity were the magic words, Francis’s thighs fell apart over Arthur's lap, so he was straddling the british male and pressing against him wonderfully. Arthur threw a shrewd look around the rest of the library. The isles and chairs around them were all empty; the window was inked out by the night, and he knew nobody in their right mind would be arriving newly so close to closing.

Well, you never knew--but the way Francis was sitting on his cock made it feel worth the risk.  
Scooping his arm over Francis’s back, Arthur lifted from the chair, then rotated the both of them--still snogging the hell out of the French boy, he lifted, turned, repeated, until Francis’s form was smothered upon the chair underneath him. After pulling Francis’s jumper off over his head and throwing it aside, he began undoing the buttons on the shirt underneath. Just enough to get his hands through. Meanwhile, Francis’s fingers were tugging at his belt of Arthur's trousers, and his voice beginning to whine incoherently in French. _“J’en ai besoin...j’en--j--S'il vous...plaît...plaît…”_

Knotting a ball of blonde round his fist, Arthur pulled back Francis’s head so his chin was up and his throat bared. Like a hungry dog nuzzling a piece of fresh meat, his nose dropped to the neck, and the moisture of his breath hit the white skin hotly. “Uh-uh, this is an English lesson, Love. Say it right.”

Francis’s adam’s apple shrugged under Arthur's lips. He seemed to have forgotten in the moment how to use his second language, and his lack of knowledge muzzled him temporarily of anything more coherent than drizzled mewls and pants as Arthur’s teeth grazed his neck and Arthur’s palm pressed itself firmly to the space between his legs. 

And then:

“I need--need it” Francis finally gasped “please, please...I need it bad.”

“Bad _ly_ , Poppet. Remember it’s an adverb.”

An airy laugh came from Francis, as his hands resumed their wandering. When they finally slid past the button on Arthur’s pants, their coolness, smoothness, and precision at the desired area was enough to make Arthur feel an immediate compressed thrill in his gut. This, by far, was the most he had been touched by anybody in his life, and he groaned _“Fuck”_ as he hung his head over Francis.

Francis seemed pleased of himself. “It seems zat you may need me badly too, hm?”

“Shut your filthy mouth, you sodding trollop”

“Make m-m _mm_ …”

Enough speaking. Arthur covered Francis’s mouth with his own so quickly and so forcefully that the back of the blonde’s head hit the chair’s cushion with a _thump._

_“Oi! What d’you hornbags think yer doing?! This is a public library, for bloody sakes!”_

The kiss snapped in half. The blue and the green pierced each other with equal horror. They’d been caught.

The librarian, an old frumpy man with jowls that hung past his chin, was squinting past his gnarled hand as if trying to filter out the view of a particularly ugly sun. With his other hand, he menacingly brandished a hardcover copy of _Wuthering Heights_ at them. Quickly, Arthur and Francis scrambled to make sure everything was zipped and buttoned away. Francis stood behind Arthur, still breathing heavily, and struggling to get his shirt over his shoulders.

“Kirkland, I’d have expected better of you!” Arthur felt his stomach drop. Of course the librarian knew him by name. He had been coming here all his life. “Take yer lass and git out of here. And don’t show yer face in this library until you’ve learned how to keep it in yer pants. Go on, git!”

“Yes sir, sorry sir.” Arthur grabbed Francis forcefully by the hand and yanked him toward the exit. Francis, who seemed to have given up on trying to redress, clutched his bundled shirt to his chest as he was dragged out. Arthur saw the librarian’s beady eyes wander slyly to Francis’s covered chest, before shooting away quickly as the man grumbled “grotty kids…”  
It hit him that the man must have assumed that Francis was a girl. There was something of a relief that came with the realization.

But still not enough.

“Shi _iiit_! Bloody fucking hell!” He shouted, when they stumbled out into the night. Shame and embarassment were bubbling through him. Quickly he dropped Francis’s hand, and took a few peglegged steps into the parking lot, holding his hands to his head.

Francis shivered, his bare shoulders still hunched around a crumpled piece of fabric. “Are we not allowed to go in zere any more?”

 _Stupid, stupid questions!_ Arthur kicked the curb of the sidewalk, ignoring the sharp pain it caused to pound through his toe. “Like hell we’re not. We’ve gone and got ourselves banned, y’dumb mug. Shit!” His respectability was down the drain. His favorite place was out of bounds. And it was all because of one little frog. He began to laugh, tipping his face to the night and watching the cloud of white, chilled mist that curled from his mouth.

“Are--are you okay?” Francis asked nervously. Arthur saw him shiver again. It must have been cold with only a half buttoned shirt hanging off him. Remarkably, Arthur found he didn’t care very much.

“Oh, _yeah_ , can’t you see how okay I am?”

Francis was silent for a moment as Arthur steamed. And then his golden head tossed toward the lit library window and he sniffed. “Cranky old man. Zat was my favorite sweater.”

Arthur whipped around, ready to murder. “Your sweater? Your sodding _sweater_?! I just got banned from my only solace on this ruddy planet and you’re whining about a _shirt?!_ Like hell. This is all your fault!”

Francis’s voice raised about two and a half octaves. “All _my_ fault? Excusez moi, you were just as eager to--”

“You’re a seductress. A freaking seductress!” Arthur interrupted. His blood was hot, and seeing Francis’s stupid face in front of him was bringing it to a near boil. “I can’t believe I let you get to me. This is inexcusable. I’m done. Good day.”

He began to walk away so he could go home, and never show his face to the light of day again, when he heard a few stumbling footfalls and felt a pale hand fall upon his shoulder. “Arthur, wait! Does this mean--”

“No more lessons? Smartest thing you ever said. No more anything, in fact. Have a nice life.”

And with that he wrenched his shoulder away and stormed out across the darkened pavement.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning**  
> This chapter contains potentially triggering sexual content

Francis Bonnefoy didn’t think there was anything inherently shameful about the act of crying. It was natural, healthy, and human.

And yet he hated himself for it.

That two faced, opportunistic, insensitive _branleur_ didn’t deserve to be cried over. And yet here he was, feeling inadequate, abandoned, and lost at some point of just about every day of the following week. He supposed that he could have toned down the flirtation back when they had been studying in the library together. But he had really, truly believed that Arthur had a heart worth chasing after.

Ha. How wrong he had been.

The truth was, he was becoming quite lonely. Arthur had, in the previous weeks, become not only his closest, but his only, friend. Now, Francis couldn’t even look at him during class without wanting to spit at his feet, and then run, and then cry. He was having trouble following along in lectures again, and He had taken to sitting alone at lunch. That is, when he went to lunch at all. Most days, he didn’t.

But that Friday, he did.

He had decided that the time had come to force himself to make some friends. With a bagged lunch balancing atop the textbooks he carried (they were surprisingly heavy. Not eating in the middle of the day, he realized, must’ve zapped away some of his arm strength) he entered the cafeteria and scanned for tables with empty spaces. He crossed the room slowly,observing that the human density was depleting as he traveled to the less rowdy and (dare he say) less popular side of the cafeteria. He was just about to check if a half-filled table of girls would be willing to accept him when he realized that he had meandered to right next to an all but empty table containing the very person he was trying to avoid.

Their eyes met, and Arthur stood up abruptly. “Hey Frog I’ve got--”

Before he could finish with whatever insult he was about to hurl, Francis cut him off with a shrill “Do not speak to me, _imbécile!_ ” and turned away. Legs moving quickly, Francis weaved back through the crowd to the opposite end of the cafeteria, where the people were loud and rowdy enough that he knew Arthur wouldn’t follow. There, the only people he recognised were the ones from his English class; though sitting with those who had mocked him before was certainly playing with fire, a feeling of reckless impudence against Arthur had taken over him. And besides, he knew how to speak slang now, so he’d be able to take care of himself.

Trying his best to sound like a rough and rowdy englishman, he plopped his things down (grâce à Dieu, his arms were killing him!) and said “Budge up, will you?”

It actually worked! A boy with a freckled face, who sat to the left of the one Francis recognized for his flaming ginger hair, scooted over to give Francis the corner of the bench. 

“Alright, Frog?” One of them said. Subtracting the cultural slur, it was the closest thing to a friendly greeting he had yet gotten from them. 

“Great, thanks” He said, playing it safe.

A boy sitting across from him, a kid with messy chestnut hair, rested his chin on his knuckles and watched Francis with glittering eyes. “What brings you to our neck of the woods, Bonnefoy?”

Francis was about to open his mouth and respond, when the freckled boy next to him cut in with “I reckon the hopper lost his bender buddy-- that’s why he’s sitting with us all of a sudden.” 

As Francis felt his face begin to prickle, the red-haired one turned to his friend and struck up a mock conversation. “How d’y reckon it happened?”

“Why don’t you ask ‘im?” The freckled one joked. “He’s right there.”

The red haired boy turned to Francis with a huge, pointy grin on his face. “Well Frog? How’d you lose ‘im? He catch you noshing of some other bloke or something?”

Francis immediately stiffened. “I do not have zis ‘bender buddy’ that you speak of.” He paused, tasting a british insult on the edge of his tongue, before finishing. “You are a deluded pratt.”

The red-haired boy’s eyes went wide, before crinkling into a jovial laughter, which he shared with the whole table. “Looks like the ribbeter picked up some new words!”

The freckled one, who was on Francis’s left, cupped his hand to the side of Francis’s head and practically shouted _“Oi! Can you understand me now, mate?”_

Francis winced, as the table erupted in laughter and his ear began ringing.

“The real question is, are you still willing to go up to the teacher and tell ‘er you’ve been wanking off to an essay? Or are you too much of a jessie?”

Francis felt his nervous system quiver underneath his skin. He had thought that learning all these words would have helped him out in a scenario like this. But now that he could understand what they were saying, it made hearing it a thousand times more hurtful. He was drowning in jeers. Overwhelmed, he stood up, and, forgetting his food and his books, turned away from the boys at the table. Curling his shoulders against the insults he could hear being hurled in his wake, he sped up his pace until he was practically sprinting from the cafeteria, long yellow hair trailing wildly behind him as he fled to the bathroom.

Their voices still echoed in his ears as he braced his arms against the sink. His breath was beginning to come out in short little gasps, and he hated himself for wanting to cry for them, too: to cry for those who didn’t deserve his tears.

But then he heard the door creak and in a flash of blonde hair, he had shut himself into one of the stalls.

He would wait, he decided, as he began hearing the ploppy drizzle of pee hitting a urinal. He would wait until the person was gone, and then make his exit. 

The thing was, the person didn’t go. Long after the sounds of urination were finished, the grungy pair of sneakers was visible from the cracks of the stall.

Was the other boy texting? Smoking? Musing on the internal workings of the universe? Why wouldn’t he leave? Three minutes. Five minutes. Eight minutes.

Rolling up a wad of toilet paper, Francis decided to dry his face the best he could, keep his head down, and leave. Taking a deep breath of sickly bathroom air, he unlatched the stall and headed casually to the sink. Avoiding looking up to the mirror, he quickly washed his hands, dried them, and turned to leave--

\--Only to find himself blocked by a very familiar stranger.

“Hey, rent boy, I’m here to collect.”

_Bloody Merde._

The mousy brown hair, shifty eyes, and imposing physique were all a reminder of the cringeful day Francis had nonchalantly accepted a ten pound note from a stranger in the restroom, and walked away. The eyes were just as shifty as before--except now they also had a narrowness that conveyed a certain amount of anger and focus.

“ _Bonjour_ ” Francis said, smiling brightly in a crumbling attempt to appear endearing. He hoped perhaps that answering in French might lead the other to believe he was clueless of the situation he was in. No such luck. 

“Think you can stiff me like that, Frog? Like hell. Like hell if I’ll be stiffed by a nancy boy like you.” This guy was, as Francis had predicted, embarrassed about both asking for and being denied a ‘jobby’. The boy wasn’t afraid of confrontation, though, as Francis had predicted. His embarrassment had morphed to outrage, and he was obviously determined to get the last word.

The guy began fiddling with the zipper of his pants. “Get over here.”

Francis’s stomach turned numb.

“No” He said quickly “You are insane. I do not want to do zis.” He tried to walk past the other boy. Roughly, he was pushed back into the corner sink.

“Shame. I already paid for it.”

As the larger male began getting closer, Francis could feel his back pressing closer to the wall and his knees beginning to go weak. In a flash, and hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of his hair, cracking the back of his head to the wall. “Knees!” The guy snarled.

Francis could feel his breath catching in his throat as panic began to take over his body. He thrashed--momentarily--before the fist that held the bundle of his hair yanked downward so that he was forced to stoop to the ground.

“Excellent. A little leash for a little slut.” The boy said. In one swift motion, Francis found himself kneeling on the floor and faced with a dangling hose of flesh and pubic hair. The urge to gag curled up his esophagus.

“Go on. Open up wide.”

Chest constricted by horror, Francis shook his head and called out, “If you make me, I will bite. I swear I will bite.”

The sink dripped, and Francis heard it loudly in the thoughtful silence that followed. Then he heard a voice he could tell came with a smirk. “Guess I’ll have to find another hole, then”. 

Pain crackled though his ribs as he was kicked to the floor. Before he had time to orient himself, he felt a huge weight press down upon his back, causing his chest to become smushed into the floor, and his arm, which had become folded underneath his torso, to bend. He felt a short, desperate shriek escape his mouth, and then the weight released and the tiles flew underneath his nose as he was dragged backward on his stomach. The sensation of rough hands yanking forcefully at his pants was the same as a police dog digging its teeth in and jerking the victim back, back, back, until finally there was a _rrip_ and a coldness. With his lower body pinned, Francis tried to lift himself with his hands; his sweaty palms slipped on the bathroom floor as the boy growled _“Nice try”_ and rolled the panting French boy onto his side.

He should have yelled or screamed or something; he should have, but all his focus was on trying to drag himself away at this point. Coated in perspiration, and somehow still very, very cold, he struggled. Bracing himself with his forearm, he managed to raise himself a fraction, before his arm was twisted behind him, and a shoulder dug into his side as half of his face was pressed into the stinking tiles. He heard his hip pop as one of his legs was lifted much higher than it should have been, and the other body pressed closer.

And then it happened, and he couldn’t scream, because it felt too wrong to be described so civilly.

The first push was slow.

“Damn, Frog. You sure are tight, for such a whore.” Francis closed his eyes, and felt a tear roll down as the next words were breathed against his skin. “A guy would almost think you’ve never done this before.”

The second push never came, because at that moment, the bathroom door creaked open again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations
> 
> branleur: French equivalent of 'wanker'  
> swot: a teacher's pet  
> ponce: poser  
> jessie: weak/effeminate male  
> I'm only bringing these british bits up because I know they weren't included in flashcards


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur Kirkland kept a sullen eye on his former pupil after they had had their tense encounter. Muttering resentful words, he stuffed the rumpled apology gift he had been holding back into his backpack, and huffed back to his table. He supposed he couldn’t be too annoyed though. Francis did have the right to be angry with him.

The night after he had stamped home angrily, abandoning Francis in the cold, empty parking lot, he had laid in bed, fuming still about getting caught. But when sun next rose, his eyes snapped open to the realization that he had been behaving like a cowardly, irrational pratt. 

Though he had to admit, it was quite off-putting to be denied the opportunity to even own up to his actions. He had been planning this for a damn near week. But in retrospect, he mused, as he watched the yellowish head cross to the other, more crowded side if the cafeteria, it might not have been the most tactful strategy to enter a conversation with the pissed Frenchman by using the words “Hey Frog”.

He sighed internally. What was Francis doing? Burying himself in the crowd so that he knew Arthur wouldn’t follow? Arthur squinted across the cafeteria, and saw that Francis had been heartily welcomed into the Neanderthal table, as he liked to refer to it in his mind. A twist of cold resentment revisited his core. Fine. If Francis was so determined to get away from him, he’d just read his book.

_“The maiden’s scream pierced the valley as she fell, and the Knight swooped to catch her before her skull hit the merciless stone. Staring down in shock, he cradled her body and watched as a dark stain bloomed across her corset, a red rose sprouting from the spot where the dagger entered her belly. Her fingers trembled like warm leaves as she touched his face, not yet dead, and yet, in so many ways, lost already. The Knight realized that he--_

Sodding idiots, what was going on now? Arthur put down his book, and glared across the room to the table from which he could hear shouts, laughter, and a few sharp, mocking catcalls. He saw Francis quickly pacing away from his taunters, before exiting the cafeteria. Immediately Arthur knew what must have happened. 

A refreshing sense of righteous outrage boiled in his chest. Who did these people think they were, going and making Francis feel upset? That was _his_ bloody job! Rising to his feet, Arthur felt himself get transported by a burning desire to conquer. Before he knew it, he was on the other side of the cafeteria, standing in front of a table that was still largely ignoring him. 

Putting on his best teacher’s voice, he cleared his throat. “Ahem. Mr MacGregor? The Headmistress would like to see you in her office.”

The amount of satisfaction he got from seeing the red-haired boy jump out of his skin was immeasurable.

“Oi mate, calm down, it’s just that ponce, Kirkland” One of his mates said, throwing Arthur a dirty look.

MacGregor still looked worried. “Yeah? How d’y know the hag didn’t send him? He’s enough of a swot to be her errand boy.”

“That’s right mate” Arthur said, baring his teeth in what could’ve passed for a sadistic grin. “She was making her rounds and saw you harassing that foreign student. She wants to see you in her office so she can chew you out in person. And in private.”

The other’s face went pale. “How do I know you’re not full of shit, Kirkland?”

“Fine, don’t believe me” Arthur said, delicately resting his hands on Francis’s books, before wrenching them off the table. “I’m just doing my job. I suppose I could just leave you and bring these up to her to show her that you’re sorry, but not bothered enough to drop in yourself. We’ll see if that one flies.”

“Wait!” The boy stood up so quickly, his food tray clattered to the floor. “Just bring them back to the french kid. I’ll go.”

Arthur smiled graciously, “Good decision, mate. A bit of advice: fess up immediately to what you’ve done. She doesn’t like cowards” . Turning away, he threw one last careless motion to the tray on the floor. “And clean that up, will you?”

A delightful fire of vengeance glowed in Arthur’s chest as he tuned out the serenade of scrambling panic left in his wake. Crossing the cafeteria, he decided to find Francis and return his books to him. Perhaps it would serve as a gesture of solidarity. If not, at least he’d save those gits the satisfaction of divvying up the things amongst themselves.

The chatter of the cafeteria became muffled as Arthur entered the hallway. Knowing Francis, Arthur figured that the french boy had probably fled to the nearest secluded place in which he could un-ruffle his feathers in front of a mirror. In other words, the first floor toilet.

The hallway was quite empty at this hour. It made sense, as everybody was either in class or at lunch. But it still felt eerie. Arthur dismissed the sentiment. This wasn’t some fictional book filled with pixies and witches and screaming banshees.

But then, about nine paces from the bathroom door, he heard a sound that could have been one.

He froze, listening. It had been short, muffled, and high. Like a bleating animal. Something trapped in a locker? No. Now it was gone. 

There was a faint thud, and suddenly Arthur knew he had to run. Skidding in front of the bathroom door, he yanked the thing open, and immediately felt his insides curl.

A pulsing knot of human writhed upon the tiled floor. Closest to Arthur was the turned back of the larger bloke, who was smothering the smaller body into the ground. A calf with a torn pair of trousers dangling from the twitching foot was slung over the larger’s shoulder. On the other side of all this, a slash of golden hair puddled itself across the floor.

He heard Francis let out one more choked little whimper, and lightning cracked inside him. As he rushed over and wrenched the guy’s shoulder toward him, he pulled back his fist and became another animal. One that enjoyed the feeling of cartilage crunching under its knuckles. One that relished in a jaw cracking at the contact of its elbow. One that swore _“Bloody dickhead”_ after being punched in the face in return, and then quickly wiped the crimson drool away before flinging its foot up, full force, and punting the larger boy square in the bollocks.

Howling, the defeated stumbled from the bathroom, tail tucked between his quivering legs.

 _“Francis.”_ Watching his friend brought the humanity rushing back to him like a flood, until it sloshed over the edges of his ribcage. Francis, who had been crushed onto his side before, was dragging his hip across the floor as he pulled himself painstakingly into a sitting position. 

Arthur took a quick stride in his direction, but abruptly stopped when Francis’s hand flew out in a gesture to halt, with a suddenness that unbalanced his other arm, causing him to fall back onto his side. _“Arrête, ne me regarde pas!”_

He didn’t have enough french to understand what was said, but he was still animal enough to know the meaning of wild eyes and high, fearful yelling.

He waited as Francis pulled his torn trousers back over his exposed lower half, and then tried to stand up. His knees were shaking too much, though, so Arthur came forward to steady him, and help him sink slowly back down to the floor without hurting himself.

As Arthur knelt by Francis’s side, he could hear short, constricted breaths starting to come from Francis’s lips. 

“It’s okay.” He murmured. His heart quivered as he felt Francis’s face finally tip onto his shoulder, and begin wetting it with warm, shivery gasps. Wrapping his arms around him, he began rocking gently, saying, “Shh, sh, you’re alright, you’re alright…” Even though he knew he wasn’t.

After a bit of this, he tucked a strand of hair behind Francis’s ear and began smoothing the rest of it down. “That chap was a right wanker, wasn’t he?” He said. He felt a little hiccup that might have been a chuckle, amongst the sea of sobs.

Once he had regained himself enough to speak, Francis mumbled “Y-you don’t need to hug me now, I do this all ze time.”

Arthur unfolded from around his shoulders and held the other at arm’s length. His face was pale with concern.

“‘This’?” His eyes darted to the bruise on Francis’s side, the tear in his clothes and the cut on his lip. How far had Francis fallen since they’s last met? “You mean people have been coming to you and--?”

His voice faltered when Francis’s tear-stained face suddenly contorted into an expression of rage. “I am not actually a whore, Arthur, contrary to what people might think!” His arms folded gingerly over his abdomen as his eyes fixed to the spot on the floor where he had been pinned a moment ago, and he continued “and yet here we see that the more people believe it, the more it becomes true.”

“Francis...no...it’s not...that’s not how it works.”

“Really? Then how does it work? Does any prostitute ever become that way because it was their desire to do so?”

Arthur felt himself to be effectively shut up on the matter. But--“Then what do you do all the time? Get beat up?”

“Non.” Francis said simply. “je pleure.”

_I cry._

It was then that Arthur decided that he, Arthur Kirkland, as well as everybody else in the world, was utter and complete garbage.

“I’m sorry, Love.” He said softly. His eyes rested sadly on the pink tint underneath Francis’s. “We’re all just a bunch of bloody wankers, aren’t we.”

Francis sniffed. “Barmy tossers” He mumbled.

“Numpty twats.” Arthur responded.

“Shirty pratts.”

“Bleedin’ nitwits.”

“Stonking arses.”

“Good one” Arthur said, sounding genuinely impressed. 

A shadow of a smile flitted across Francis’s face. He pushed his wrist along his cheek, to dry it. “I think I want to stand up now” he said.

“Right you are” Arthur said. Standing back, he offered Francis a hand and helped to pull him from the ground. “There we go.”

Francis immediately turned away from him, and at first, Arthur thought he was still angry with him. But then he realized that Francis was fixing his hair in the mirror. Arthur went to stand along side him and watch his progress. “You look okay” He said, after a while.

Francis tossed him an annoyed look, dropping the braid he had been trying to twist into his hair as he motioned to his trousers, which had a noticeable tear under the belt. His shirt had a little bloodstain on it as well. “What am I supposed to do about zis, hm? Nobody has any respect for clothing in zis country, I swear…”

“Hold on” Arthur said, catching a gastly glimpse of his own eyebrows furrowing in the mirror “why are you trying to cover this up? Don’t you want to report it?”

Francis tensed. “No” He said shortly. His hands returned to his hair and he began braiding it erratically. “Not today.”

Arthur wanted to argue. He wanted to argue _so badly_ that this was a stupid decision; that that bloke needed to be brought to justice, and that for Francis’s well being, his attacker needed to be criminally charged as soon as possible.

But then he noticed the way Francis’s fingers trembled putting the final twist in the braid, and he decided that now needn’t be the time.

“Alright” He said. His eyes fell to Francis’s torn clothing, and suddenly he lit up. “Hey, I think I know what to do about that.”

Scrambling to his bookbag, which he had dropped onto the floor at some point in the day’s proceedings, he rummaged through it until his fingers struck the soft fabric of his ungiven apology present. He felt Francis’s eyes following him as he unfurled the sweater from his bag, and came to stand again next to Francis in the mirror. 

“It’s a bit big” He said, for some reason nervous about this. The sweater was a deep, byzantine blue that he would never admit he had chosen because he thought it complemented Francis’s eyes. Stitched into the chest was a minimalist imprint of a red rose (which Arthur certainly did _not_ embroider himself...no, certainly not). “I got it since you--erm--lost your other one. It might be long enough to cover up the tear in your trousers.”

Francis’s initial expression of surprise soon morphed into one of inspection. Like a cat placing one paw delicately in front of the other, he circled Arthur and the sweater so as to examine it from every angle. And then he took it. “A bit tacky. But I suppose baggy clothes are coming into fashion. _Merci.”_ Pulling it over himself, his head popped out the top, and he began smoothing it down the front. His hands were sheltered by the droopy sleeves, and the bottom of it hung to his mid thigh. 

Without thinking, Arthur said “You look cute.” His face began to burn after he said it. He would have regretted it, but he could tell that receiving the complement made Francis immediately fall in love with the gift.

“Cute?” He questioned, a smile coming to his lips. “Not grotty?”

“Nope. Just cute.”

As Francis arranged his hair one last time, Arthur became possessed by the very strong conviction that no matter what happened, nobody would ever be able to stamp the Frenchman out of Francis. 

A blue clad arm circled gently into his own, and together they faced the bathroom door.

 _“Bien”_ Francis said. _“Allons-y.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Arrête, ne me regarde pas!-- Stop, don't look at me!  
> Bien...Allons-y -- good...let's go
> 
> Alright this is the ~end~ of this story, except-  
> \--yes, there is an epilogue, and yes, there is a sequel (Coming soon to an ao3 near you!)
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to those who have encouraged me along the way. I may sometimes take some time to respond to comments, but I swear, I look at them, and I smile, and I gain so much encouragement and motivation from you all. 
> 
> Peace, love, health!  
> Stay safe, everyone.
> 
> Sincerely,
> 
> -mistakeandcheese


	12. epilogue

*epilogue*

_“In a land covered in moss and mist, there was a kingdom shrouded by the dark depths of an ancient forest. Isolated by dragging tendrils and oaky trunks, many spanning more than two men across, most villagers believed that this was the extent of their earth; they were the ones who shook their heads at the folklore perpetuated by the people who claimed that they were not alone. All knew of the faeries that existed across the brambled wilderness, yet none had ever communicated with these mythical beings. Regarded with the same mesmerization a woodsman might expess upon seeing a white doe cross his path before vanishing into the trees, the faeries came and they went; but they never went anywhere.”_

“But zat does not make sense!” Francis interrupted loudly. “Everything zat goes must go somewhere. If ze kingdom has been surrounded by ze forest this whole time, wouldn’t someone have thought to investigate by now?”

Arthur closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and counted to five. When he exhaled, a silky puff of long, blonde hair fluttered up in front of his nose. The top of Francis’s head was nestled under his chin, as the French boy rested a cheek on his shoulder and listened to him read a book aloud.

“That’s the _point._ The story is setting up the context for a person to come along and investigate. That’s when the knight comes in and--”

“Don’t spoil it only a paragraph in, _lapin muet!”_

“You’re the one who interr--”

“Sh” Francis pressed his pointer finger to his own lips, before moving it to Arthur’s and pressing his nose like a button, leaving Arthur blinking stupidly at whatever the hell interaction had just happened. “Keep reading.”

A series of indistinguishable grumbles melted into the continuation of the story. Arthur didn’t read aloud often (there were very few people in his life who requested performances of his favorite books), but he found that he was quite gifted at it. A rhythmic flow, combined with an ability to tap into the emotions of the characters, and, of course, his british accent, all contributed to this. 

Francis seemed to enjoy it, at any rate. It had been his idea, as a new study tactic. _“It will help me to hear new words and ze way people speak zem”_ he had said, a week prior. Flashcards were good, but in the few weeks since he had found Francis torn apart upon the bathroom floor, Arthur had been laying off them. It seemed that more low-key study sessions were in order.

Arthur had gone alone to the library a few times here and there to cautiously take out, return, and in the case of the one he was reading now, renew, his books. The librarian had given him the stink eye the first few times, but all in all, it seemed as though the ban wasn’t a very weighted threat. 

But with Francis, it still seemed safer to study elsewhere, which is what brought them to a Saturday evening with the two of them curled up together underneath a blanket in Arthur's bedroom. 

As Arthur again allowed his voice to resonate across the walls, he felt the gentle movements of Francis rearranging his limbs across his torso, and nuzzling closer into the shell of his neck. It gave him a warm, squeezed feeling in his heart. Perhaps fondness? No, that wasn't entirely it. 

He decided, for the moment, to dismiss it as acid reflux.

_“...but there was one Knight who believed. An inky night on the summer solstice many years back into his boyhood, he had awoken slowly to a strange, musical voice murmuring faintly on the wind. Pawing his eyes blearily, he had followed the sound out into the woods, until he had reached a clearing lit by the glow of a thousand fireflies, all pulsing like embers around a tiny blue sun that beckoned playfully to him. As he reached out to grab it, he heard the distant sound of another child giggling, before his fist closed around dark, empty air, and he found himself to be alone again.”_

“What I don’t understand” Francis began, possibly ignoring (but probably grinning at) the groan emitted by Arthur, “Is why ze kingdom would have knights in ze first place. If they have always been alone, and believe zat they are alone, who would they expect to be fighting against?”

“Perhaps the knights serve as coppers. Perhaps they’re just there to keep people in line and do the King’s bidding. Didn’t think of that one, did you?”

“Wait, is zis a kingdom or a village? I distinctly heard ze word ‘village’ earlier.”

“Kingdoms can _have_ villages, ya dunce.”

“I feel as though there would be a significant amount of inbreeding within zis society.”

“Mr. Bonnefoy, do you anticipate, at any point in the near future, that you might shut the hell up?”

“It depends, Monsieur Kirkland. Will you allow me to kiss you?”

“Make it quick, Frog.”

The mattress creaked as Francis shifted out of place and positioned himself so that he was laying across Arthur’s chest. Their legs were tangled loosely together, and their faces just enough centimeters apart so that Arthur could still see Francis’s face clearly.

Francis was smiling, and it seemed as though his face were glowing. He had shaved recently, so the scrub of stubble he usually allowed to grow was replaced by smooth, very young looking skin. Of course, Arthur knew Francis wasn’t all pearly perfection. The French boy had, in the past few weeks, developed a noticeable habit of touching his face when he was anxious. Arthur had seen him do it quite a few times from across the room in their classes; though he hardly ever caught him doing it when he was at his side. The one time had been the day he had asked Francis once more if he was going to report about what had happened to him in the bathroom. Francis’s fingertip had risen to his temple, before following through the motion to sweep a nonexistent strand of hair behind his ear and finally tracing a path down to his chin. “ _Non_ ” He had said. “I--I do not want to. Not yet.” 

Whatever the cause, the result of the habit had been the appearance of a some new pimples, which Francis had lamented profusely, before covering with makeup and pretending that they had never existed. It was easier to apply makeup without the stubble in the way, and now, Francis looked more than ever like a beautiful androgynous showstopper.

Staring back into Francis’s face, Arthur could no longer deny the voice in his mind which had always insisted that Francis was quite pretty. His somewhat small, pink lips were pulled into a soft smile; his waterfall-blue eyes were drinking in every inch of Arthur’s face with an expression that poured an absolute sense of…

...fondness.

Yeah. Fondness must have been it.

As Francis’s face got closer, Arthur closed his eyes and waited for the commencement of a slobbery French snog and the inevitable battle of tongues. 

He never got it. What he instead felt was a warm, light brush on his forehead, before Francis settled himself down again. Arthur blinked as he watched the Frenchman nestle that golden head atop his chest, close his eyes, and lay there as if he were listening the sound of the ocean. 

He watched his own arms lift and clasp themselves gently over Francis’s back. 

For a solid minute, he believed that Francis was drifting to sleep, and he watched the process with a strangely powerful sensation of what _must_ have been fondness spreading throughout his arms, toes, belly and heart.

And then he heard a soft murmur. “Are you going to keep reading, _mon lapin_?”

“Oh, right” he said, clearing his throat brusquely. He raised the book again.

“... _dawning his armor, the knight took up his sword and faced the rustling wilderness. Many had warned him of the dragons, specters, and bone-crushing giants that prowled these lands. But, despite the dangers, he still desired this journey, because he knew, in his heart, that something beautiful was out there…_

“...And that’s the end of chapter one, Francis. Shall I keep going?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:
> 
> lapin muet: dumb bunny  
> mon lapin: my bunny/rabbit


End file.
